Ebb
by seren-mercury
Summary: Milestones aren't anniversaries but they exist all the same. (Stiles hits an odd distinction in his life without his mother) - Sciles friendship, Stydiaish, Vague post 5B references -


**A/N:** I played with time a little here but hopefully not enough for it to matter. Written because I miss people more in fall and it's not November. I wrote this in one sitting and it's unbeta'd so proceed at your own risk because it's mostly terrible. (on ao3 too if that's more your speed)

 **Hook:** Milestones aren't anniversaries but they exist all the same. (Stiles hits an odd distinction in his life without his mother)

 **Title:** Ebb

He doesn't know why it matters so much, but it does. He can't let go of it all day; it lives just under his skin. Constant and present. It really shouldn't matter.

(But it does.)

Because today means he has lived half of his life without her. Today means every day (every hour, minute, moment) from now until he dies, he will have lived longer without her than he did with her. And there's something about that he can't fathom. It doesn't make any sort of sense, not when she is as much a part of him as she ever was. Not when she's in his eyes in the mirror every morning, in his wry smile, his last bit of tenacity, his resolve.

It doesn't seem possible that their time together was so short, almost fleeting in the grand scheme of a life, and yet it matters as much (more) than things that (will) have outlasted it.

He doesn't say anything. It's just a random date, not an anniversary or a holiday or a birthday. Just a milestone. A quirk of time. He shouldn't even know it, didn't mean to, but it stuck in his head. The second his birthday passed he thought…this is the year… the year he shifts to the other side of the equation.

(That's a bad analogy; it doesn't hold up mathematically, that's not how equations work, Lydia would notice, Lydia would hate that.)

He tries to stay invested in the insanity around him, the people (person) trying to kill them. The danger, the hearts still beating, the world that's so much larger than she ever knew. It should be enough that he can't dwell, but that's the thing about a mind that can play through so many frequencies of thought, he still manages to do just that.

It's ridiculous he knows. He can't stop time, nothing can.

(Probably…)

(Not yet anyway)

He can't stop time, and so the sun sinks in the horizon and the day closes and he's lived one day longer without his mother than he did with her.

(Impossible, unthinkable, unfair)

He gets up the next morning and there are shadows under his (her) eyes. It shouldn't be true but they look more alike when he's tired (exhausted, in pain, broken) because that's how he remembers her. He avoids mirrors on those days, avoids his (her) gaze in them. But today he looks (stares, searches) trying to find her in the ring of his (her, their) irises, in the haze of amber and sorrel.

He braces himself against the sink in his bathroom and exhales deeply, letting it all out in a rush.

(tired, exhausted, in pain, broken)

He's lived longer without a mother than he did with one.

(that's not how it's supposed to work)

Scott is too perceptive (too strong, too aware). No one else would have noticed (could have). But he breathes deep next to Stiles and he tilts his head in a way that would be comically canine on another day. He frowns, an expression that's sweetly foreign on him. Stiles wonders what he smells exactly.

(Resignation, regret, grief)

"You okay man?" He says it softly, in a way that tells Stiles he doesn't have to answer unless he wants to, in way that is so very Scott.

("I'm here…if you want, I'm here if you'll let me be…")

He means to answer flippantly, there's a sarcastic quip on his tongue before he's even processed the question, but he stops. His (her) eyes flick to a mirror embedded in a locker across the hall. "Probably." He answers after a long moment. Scott looks him over more fully (senses probably on high alert) and his expression deepens.

"Not sleeping." It's only half a question.

"Only on days that end in 'y'," Stiles offers wryly, but there's a sigh fighting to leave him. Scott seems unsatisfied with the response and he grips Stiles's shoulder, leans in, and sniffs deeply. Stiles shoves the werewolf with more indignation that force, "Dude, seriously?" He admonishes. "Boundaries!"

Scott is unfazed and lost in cataloguing whatever he gleaned from his survey of Stiles's chemical signature. Confusion clouds his face for a moment and there's something unsure as he says, "Your…mom?" He's searching Stiles's face for the answer, which is knit in something between bewilderment and astonishment.

"How?" Stiles manages, because it'd be useless to lie to the alpha.

Scott shakes his head. "Not sure…I just…" He shrugs. "Know?" His hands are wrapped around the straps of his backpack and he nudges Stiles with an elbow. "Did something…"

(happen, change)

He knows Scott won't miss the way his jaw tenses for a second, the way his eyes look past his best friend to the floor, erratic and searching. "It's…" He stops unsure of the word he wants (too many to use and not enough at the same time). "Today is the first day I've been alive longer without her than…" He gestures vaguely and lets his hand fall back against his leg audibly. He blinks a few times before meeting Scott's gaze (soft, kind). He clears his throat and shifts, adjusting his backpack and breaking eye contact. "So."

"So." Scott mimics gently.

"It seems, I mean it seems like it wouldn't, like why would it matter so much but it-"

"It matters." Scott's response is firm and sure. He puts his hand on Stiles's shoulder again and works to meet his eye line. "It matters," He repeats more slowly and resolutely.

Stiles sniffs and nods, scuffing the tile with his sneaker, his eyes naturally locked on the action. "Yeah, it does…" His voice would be lost in the din of the hallway if he were talking to anyone that wasn't a werewolf.

His face scrunches up as he bites back the prickling of his eyes and he wipes a flannel-clad forearm under his nose. "I just miss her man." His gaze flicks to Scott again and then to his hands (and back, and back). He feels a small smile (her smile) tugging at the side of his mouth. "She would have liked this," He laughs, "Not the almost dying and the almost maiming every other week," He qualifies as Scott matches his grin. "But…the rest of it." And in this he knows his best friend completely understands.

(Not all of it, because it's not quantifiable, not delineable, incomprehensible)

"It's just that everything…" (Scott, the supernatural, Allison, the nogitsune, Malia, Eichen, graduation, Lydia) "It all happens without her." He amends. (Without her advice, without her comfort, without her humor) "And that's never going to change." He see something shift in Scott's gaze, he recognizes it (Allison), and knows that he's treading over a new wound with an old one so he stops.

(Too late, too much, too careless)

But Scott just reaches forward and pulls him into a hug. (Part comfort part contrition, part understanding part solace) He returns it with almost as much ferocity. It's not a hug for a random day in the hallway. It's more of an after a battle fought (war almost lost, victorious but fractured) sort of embrace. The other students don't pay any heed because hey, it's Beacon Hills.

Lydia and Malia find them like this and just wordlessly join suit until they've formed some weird collective of comfort. (It's less awkward than it should look.)

When they break apart Scott stands across from him with Malia, her arm over the alpha's shoulders in comfortable camaraderie, and Lydia is next to Stiles with his hand lingering just above the small of her back. "So why are we hugging today?" Malia asks with her unique mixture of curiosity and indifference as they turn and head down the hallway to their first classes.

Scott looks to Stiles whose lips quirk into his (her) wry smile. Scott swings his arm around to mirror Malia's and leads her at a slightly quicker pace, softly explaining the complexity of bittersweetness and the passing of time.

Next to him Lydia studies him in a way she has begun to do too well. A question is on her lips so he cuts her off before she can even start. "Did I ever tell you," He asks as he pushes the door to the classroom open and she passes under his arm with the ease afforded by their height difference, "That my mom met you before I did?"

And every day from now on he will have lived longer without his mother than he ever did with her. At least chronologically, technically. But he's never been one for technicalities. (He's made a point of exploiting and bending and ignoring them his entire life.) And he can't change that, can't stop time (as far as he knows). Every day will push him further from her and further into a future she will never see (never know, never shape, never).

Almost two years later he (deliberately) presses his lips to the girl's (woman) in front of him and every (hope, need, wish, want) part of it is returned in equal (unfathomable) force and he realizes something (everything) important. His mother won't be there to see him graduate, to watch him find his calling, to get to know his children, to stare down death with her eyes (and win).

But he knows, as one hand finds this (incredible, outrageous, captivating, iridescent) woman's waist and the other cradles her face and he tries to pour all of himself into a single (stolen, fleeting, ill-fated) moment, his mother did meet the love of his life. In fact she met her first…

It matters.

* * *

 **A/N:** Reviews are digital hugs


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